Ten Golden Coins
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Summary: A gilded cage is no place for Arcade Gannon.


Arcade was ashamed to admit it, but it was the crushing boredom that gets to him. If he'd been angry, if he'd still had that fire in the pit of his belly and the energy to fight, well, it'd be different. He'd have purpose and drive and something to pin his hopes on.

But alas, no. He had no fight left.

There was just the relentless monotony of being kept hidden away like a precious jewel with little outside contact, hauled out to provide entertainment for Caesar, to amuse his guests and play doctor to the chosen few. He'd been terrified at first of a hard life of brutal beatings and pain and suffering, and instead he was sinking into a morass of depression caused by living in a gilded cage.

Arcade hadn't always been so resigned. He tried fighting at first, but that always ended up with a knee in the small of his back and an arm wrenched high enough that he could feel bone grinding against bone. What was worse was being made to stand in front of Caesar like a schoolboy in front of his headmaster, head bowed contritely as he apologised and promised that he wouldn't make trouble, no matter how bad the words tasted in his mouth. It was humiliating. He knew it, Caesar knew it, everyone knew it.

Arcade had archly sniped one afternoon that he was little more than Caesar's trained dog, kept around solely to perform tricks guaranteed to delight and amuse his master. The next morning there was a dog collar left beside his breakfast plate, a blank nametag shining as brightly as a new coin. He'd had to choke down his eggs as Caesar pointedly ignored Arcade and his guards whistled and asked if he'd heel on command. The point had been made, even moreso when Arcade discovered the only way to dispose of the horrible reminder of his station was to bury the damn thing. He'd sat back on his heels, hands encrusted with dirt, and later on he figured that was the exact moment the little sliver of fighting spirit in him had died completely.

The staggering realisation that he'd been traded off for such an insultingly paltry amount of caps was a constant niggling pain to his ego though; even now, months on, the indignity of being told that pathetic amount was ten times what he was worth still rankled. Early on Caesar had discovered the quickest way to strike at the core of Arcade Gannon wasn't threats or insults – it was a small bag of golden coins tossed onto the table with an instruction for Arcade to count them. By the time he got to 'ten' Arcade physically slumped in his chair or took off his glasses, cut down where he stood.

As sick as it was to contemplate anything in his current situation in a positive context, there were some benefits. He was well fed and never wanted for clean clothes or hot water. Books were regularly provided to him, and he was gifted a journal and some pencils as some kind of reward when he'd been particularly cutting to someone Caesar wasn't fond of. He was allowed a small living space of his own and after several weeks of good behaviour was permitted to move freely around Caesar's compound, provided there were always two elite guardsmen shadowing his heels. Lucius had been somewhat kind to him and assigned him guards that were slightly more thoughtful than vicious, so Arcade was forced into the uncomfortable position of admitting that someone had shown him a kindness.

He missed being alone though. Being able to move around without the heat of eyes upon the back of his neck... an alien luxury. It'd taken two months of campaigning to be allowed to piss and shit without an audience and even that had only been granted after he'd rebuffed Caesar's attempts to goad him into debate for a solid week.

He had never been more grateful to be male in all his life, safe in the knowledge that the extent of his personal services to Caesar and his guests was limited to conversation and doctoring and nothing more. He did, however, struggle with keeping his base nature hidden away under lock and key. Homosexuality was punished by death in the Legion, and even Caesar's favourite pet wouldn't be exempt. Hell, he'd be made an example of, strung up front and centre with all the other sodomites and undesirables as a warning to anyone else who thought they could get away with not toeing the line.

He was still smarting over last week when he'd blearily blinked half-awake, nerves singing and already on the edge after a lush dream of strong hands and capable mouths and pleasure without guilt, hand slipping down to finish himself off completely on sleepy autopilot. Having one of his newer guardians kick his bed and tell him to stow it before he cut it had been mortifying. It was worse when one of his regular hawks, Alban, had given him a sympathetic smile and said next time let them know and they're turn their backs until he was done. _That_ had been an entire new league of humiliation, and Arcade had barely muttered a response to Alban's unwittingly cruel kindness before he was called to attend breakfast.

Here and now Arcade blinked back to attention, a terse nod indicating that he'd heard the barked order to get himself looking presentable. There would be guests tonight, traders seeking to move through Arizona and expand their Brahmin holdings. He would be expected to make conversation if asked, stay silent if required. He was always instructed to listen, to take notes, confident that he would be taken into Caesar's private antechamber and expected to discuss the evening until Caesar was satisfied that he had gleaned every last grain of information, parsed every little conversational quirk and discovered every weakness.

He'd do it again tomorrow. And the day after, and after that, and after that. He'd be trotted out like a prized pet, then locked away until he was next required for discussion or debate or, worst of all, pleasant company.

There were worst places he could be. Worst ways he could be treated. It didn't stop Arcade from feeling the greyness closing over his head, one eye constantly on the lookout for some little shard of hope. One day. Maybe he'd make his own hope if the moment presented itself.

Arcade patted down his shirt, not wanting to earn punishment for being anything less than the standard that had been laid out for him. When his guard indicated he should hurry up, he pasted on a smile and swept out of his room, ashamed of feeling relief that if just for a few hours, the relentless monotony of his day was going to be lifted.

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**A/N: **There is a sister story to this called _Like The Dog You Are_. I invite you to go to my profile and read the two stories together :)

Thank you in advance for your feedback.


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